The night felt wrong.
I couldn't say why. The winds were calm. The air was dry. The city buzzed below with the usual cocktail of sin and neon. But something—some sliver in my gut—twitched.
Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe death has a scent, and I'd just gotten good at recognizing it.
Still, I brushed it off.
I adjust the black cuffs of my coat and glance at my watch. 2:41 AM. Late enough for devils to do their work, early enough for angels to pretend they don't notice.
My plans were airtight. My enemies too scared. My men—loyal, or so I'd let them believe. Every piece was in place. There was no reason to think tonight would be any different than the thousand before it.
And that, I realize now, was the first mistake.
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I stood on the rooftop, fingers curled around a cigarette. A sleek black tube with silver lettering: Congress—my brand, my poison. Fitting name, too. Something about the way it rolled off the tongue like power dressed in ash.
I lit it with a flick, took a slow drag, and let the smoke crawl out of my nose.
Behind me, Rico approached. Footsteps too casual. He was always trying too hard to appear relaxed.
"Everything's set, boss," Rico said, lighting a cigarette with hands too still for a man on edge.
"Good." I didn't look at him.
"The package will be waiting in the square. We make the deal, we own the district."
"Mm." I nodded.
I didn't need his summary. I'd drawn this plan in blood and coin myself.
"Pilot's prepped. You're clear for lift-off."
I paused.
His smile felt... hollow. I'd seen him lie before, seen him slit a man's throat while whispering promises of safety. But tonight, something clung to him. A shadow behind his eyes.
I almost asked about it. Almost.
But I was Oriel Rosemberg. I didn't second-guess loyalty. I let people think they fooled me—and I played them deeper than they ever knew.
I crushed the cigarette beneath my heel, grinding the embers into the concrete until they vanished. "Let's move."
I turned without a word and stepped toward the helipad.
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The blades began to spin, kicking dust across the rooftop. The city stretched out below like a wounded beast—its veins of streetlight blinking through the fog.
This kingdom of filth. Of blood.
Mine.
I climbed into the chopper, settled into the leather seat. The door slammed shut. The pilot glanced back, gave me a thumbs-up.
I offered one back, equally false. "If we crash, try to keep my face intact. I've got shares in a funeral company too."
He chuckled, nervous.
The door slammed shut. The city dropped away beneath us.
"Smooth skies tonight, sir."
"Good," I murmured, half-lost in thought.
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As we ascended, the skyline slipped beneath us. Buildings shrank to bones. Cars to crawling ants. I watched them scatter, watched the city become something distant and small—like a memory you can't quite hold on to.
That feeling in my chest returned.
A whisper. A breath on the back of my neck.
Something's off.
But the altitude made it easier to ignore. From this high up, everything looked clean. Controlled.
I let my head fall back against the seat and closed my eyes.
And for a moment, there's silence.
Not even the blades reach me. Just the steady thrum of my own heartbeat.
They came again—those damn memories.
Not the blood, not the deals, not the screams of enemies choking on their own fear.
But her laugh.
My sister. Two years younger. She had the kind of smile that made you believe, just for a second, that the world wasn't so damned rotten.
She used to wait up for me. "You work too much," she'd say.
I'd pat her head and lie: "Just for a little while longer. Then we'll be rich. Then we'll be free."
Then there's my brother—always trailing behind me, always trying to be tougher than he was. I taught him how to throw a punch. He taught me how to laugh again, back when I still remembered how.
And my parents... gods, they were poor. But they never let us feel it. My father's hands were calloused raw from brickwork, my mother's back bent from cleaning other people's messes. Yet somehow, they smiled every day.
Until they didn't.
Boom.
I still hear it. The explosion that ripped them from the world, shredded my home into a thousand unrecognizable pieces.
I was late that day. Too busy building an empire of corpses.
When I came back, there was nothing left but fire.
I remembered how they died.
The explosion. The fire. The silence after.
And I remembered the thing that had replaced them in my heart.
Power. The one thing that never lied to me.
But as the sky grew darker, I wondered—was it worth it?
If I'd been just a little stronger... a little smarter...
Could I have stopped it?
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I didn't have long to wonder.
A whistling sound cut through the hum of the rotors.
High-pitched. Sharp.
The pilot's eyes darted left, and I caught it through the window.
A flash. A scream of metal through air.
"Shit!"
The rocket slammed into the left rotor with a sound like God breaking a drum.
The chopper lurched. Alarms screamed. Lights blinked red. The entire craft tilted sideways, the city now a spinning blur beneath us.
"Mayday! Mayday! We've been hit!" the pilot barked, already fumbling for his harness. He snapped open a compartment, pulled out a parachute.
I reached for mine.
Empty.
There was only one.
He looked at me—panic and guilt all at once.
"I—I'm sorry, boss!"
Before I could speak, he was gone.
Diving into the night sky like a rat abandoning a burning ship.
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The cockpit tipped. Flames licked the glass. Wind howled through the broken fuselage.
I stared at the open compartment again. Of course there wasn't a second chute. This wasn't an oversight. This was a message.
I reached into my coat and pulled out another cigarette. Slid it between my lips with steady fingers. The wind threatened to snatch it, but my hand was faster.
I lit it. In the middle of chaos.
The scent of paper, tobacco, and fire merged with the reek of burning metal.
Smoke filled my lungs. Familiar. Soothing.
The city spun below, and I watched it like a painting unraveling.
I took a long drag and smiled, the ember flaring bright.
I leaned back, let my head rest again.
So this is it.
There were no more regrets. Just one last thought—one final, bitter wish.
"I hope I see them again," I whispered.
The city rushed toward me. The flames grew brighter.
I felt the heat. The rush. My skin lit up like paper.
It lasted a quarter of a second.
And then—
Nothing.
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....
Darkness first.
But not peaceful, not quiet. It pressed against him like wet velvet—heavy, suffocating, full of heat and pain.
Then a sound.
Not noise, but pressure—light humming against flesh. A rhythm too even to be natural, too sharp to be safe.
Something hurt.
Everything hurt.
His eyelids fluttered open by instinct, though it felt like dragging stone across skin. A sharp hiss of breath caught in his throat—except he couldn't feel his throat. Not really. Not properly.
White. Green. Stone.
The world swam around him like it wasn't sure if it wanted to be real or a dream. He tried to focus, but his vision bled at the edges, swirling and bending in on itself like water slipping down a drain.
And then—
Pain.
True, blinding, soul-deep pain that seemed to radiate from everywhere and nowhere all at once. His arms… he couldn't feel his arms. Or his legs. Just a crushing pressure in his chest, like something huge was sitting on it.
He blinked again. Managed to make out a blur of pale blonde.
Hair. Someone's hair.
Or maybe… his own?
But the thought was too slow, too disconnected, slipping away before it took root.
Something inside him screamed. A low, ragged howl—not of fear, but of rejection. Like his soul hadn't been invited in, and the body was trying to spit it back out.
A pulse of agony lit his nerves on fire.
The world wobbled.
And then—
Nothing.
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The room was silent but for the low thrum of residual mana humming in the air, its echoes still dancing across the smooth stone walls. Light green wisps faded gradually from the air like fireflies at dawn, disappearing into the bones of the boy lying upon the slab.
He had pale blonde hair, now brushed clean and orderly by the attending clerics. His skin, ghostly white, almost looked translucent under the glow of the mana lights. Veins—once charred and ruptured—now flowed blue beneath unmarred flesh. Limbs, rebuilt inch by inch, no longer bled, no longer twitched. Only the final remnants of internal restoration remained, quietly mending deeper fractures too complex for raw healing magic to instantly repair.
His face, once contorted with pain and violence, now looked... serene. A sharp jawline softened by youth, brows furrowed faintly in what might have been confusion—or defiance. A handsome boy, some would say. Almost noble, if not for the memories he wore beneath his skin.
Two mages, robed in the silver trim of royal healers, stepped away from the slab.
"That's the last of it," one of them said, brushing sweat from his brow.
"Barely a miracle he survived this long," the other replied, voice low. "He shouldn't have. Half his body was gone. Even with the best of us working nonstop... it's unnatural."
"He's stable now, but... I wouldn't call it healing. More like rebuilding from ash."
The first mage cast one last glance toward the boy, then nodded. "Let the court decide what to do with him. He might wake up tomorrow... or never again."
And with that, they left.
Minutes passed. The room held its breath.
Then, slowly, like the shift between one heartbeat and the next, the boy's eyelids fluttered.
His breath caught, sharp and sudden—as though dragged back into a world he hadn't asked to return to.
His chest rose in a shudder, fingers twitching lightly at his sides.
And then his eyes opened.
Brilliant green. Vivid, sharp, alive.
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...